'What Did Your Lawn Dragon Cost?' by JP Relph

NEW IN! ONLY AT NEVILLE’S GARDEN MAGIC!

The line of eager grassmen stretched down Poplar, passing the bakers doing unprecedented trade in bacon butties and ending with forlorn, cardiganed men outside the bookies. Three friends had arrived at 5am, armed with flasks and foldaway stools, heading the queue. Ted was shuffling with anticipation, Roger and Clarence already inside making their pivotal purchases. 

The Lawn Dragon. A limited-edition upgrade to the revered Lawn Lizard; a few barely noticeable bells and whistles made it a wholly unnecessary purchase, but the grassmen didn’t care. It was candy-apple red with flame decals and a price-tag that was alluringly extreme. Lending an exclusivity to the glossy mower, that only the most resolute and committed grassmen could acquire.

Ted glared at his watch: a perfect cutting morning was vanishing. Still, a morning more rewarding for him than for the tardy buggers outside BazzaBets. Suddenly, from the depths of Neville’s, Clarence’s powerful voice regaled the irascible queuers with a haunting version of Green Green Grass of Home. Beneath the verdant melody, Ted thought he heard a bandsaw churring. He sipped flask-stewed tea. 

Ten minutes later, Roger and Clarence finally emerged; their Lawn Dragon’s being packed for delivery. Roger was smiling weakly; his face like cottage cheese. Ted told a beaming Clarence he’d played a belter with the song, what a way to get the mower. They winced at Roger, slumped in a wheelchair; his right trouser leg and left jumper arm pinned up, floppy. A hefty cost, but grassmen would speak of his sacrifice for many seasons to come.

Someone shouted “NEXT!” from inside Neville’s. Ted grinned, so close to his own Lawn Dragon, and the envy of the grassmen at the line’s end. In his scuffed Waitrose bag-for-life, the bomb trailed wires, and ticked.

'Three Idioms Buy a Lawnmower- But at What Cost?' by J P Relph

NEW IN! ONLY AT NEVILLE’S GARDEN MAGIC!

The line of eager grassmen stretched down Poplar, passing the bakers doing unprecedented trade in bacon butties and ending with forlorn, cardiganed men outside the bookies. Three friends had arrived at 5am, armed with flasks and foldaway stools, heading the queue. Ted was shuffling with anticipation, Roger and Clarence already inside making their pivotal purchases.

The Lawn Dragon. A limited-edition upgrade to the revered Lawn Lizard; a few barely noticeable bells and whistles made it a wholly unnecessary purchase, but the grassmen didn’t care. It was candy-apple red with flame decals and a price-tag that was alluringly extreme. Lending an exclusivity to the glossy mower, that only the most resolute and committed grassmen could acquire.

Ted glared at his watch: a perfect cutting morning was vanishing. Still, a morning more rewarding for him than for the tardy buggers outside BazzaBets. Suddenly, from the depths of Neville’s, Clarence’s powerful voice regaled the irascible queuers with a haunting version of Green Green Grass of Home. Beneath the verdant melody, Ted thought he heard a bandsaw churring. He sipped flask-stewed tea.

Ten minutes later, Roger and Clarence finally emerged; their Lawn Dragons being packed for delivery. Roger was smiling weakly; his face like cottage cheese. Ted told a beaming Clarence he’d played a belter with the song, what a way to get the mower. They winced at Roger, slumped in a wheelchair; his right trouser leg and left jumper arm pinned up, floppy. A hefty cost, but grassmen would speak of his sacrifice for many seasons to come.

Someone shouted “NEXT!” from inside Neville’s. Ted grinned, so close to his own Lawn Dragon, and the envy of the grassmen at the line’s end. In his scuffed Waitrose bag-for-life, the bomb trailed bright wires, and ticked.

'Eventually, an Apple' by Marie Little

Throughout the year Jed diligently filled the compost bin, insisted his family did the same. Every teabag, banana peel and leftover was fed to the tall green tub. Gradually worms and time made rich black food for the new Ballerina apple tree Jed planned to buy when he landed the promotion. At work he did all he could to impress; fulfilled every promise, ticked every box, worked overtime without complaint. At home, he planned and prepared, created the perfect space in his matchbox of a garden. He shrugged off his wife's worries about space, turned himself deaf to her fears that the promotion was never coming. In April Jed was called into the boss's office. She looked at him down her sharp nose, said "I'm sorry" and handed him a small apple tree in a pot labelled 'Ballerina'. A parting gift which stung so bittersweet he could barely look at it at first. Jed's wife was kind and let him tend to the tree like a child. They held a small ceremony to bed it in. Jed recited a poem he had written, the mood somewhere between Christening and funeral. He watered its base and shed a tear. Through the first summer Jed pinched off the shoots by hand, afraid to damage the tree with secateurs. On one dark Autumn night, he even slept beside the Ballerina, telling it things he couldn't tell his wife. By the second summer the little tree began to fruit. Jed spent his days watching, measuring, feeding and watering, until one day he called his wife out into the garden. "It's time" he said and trembled as he plucked a rosy apple from the tree. Jed turned the fruit around in his palm and realised that it had, in fact, grown completely pear-shaped.

'Actions Speak Louder Than Words' by Amy Wilson

The meeting has already devolved into an argument by the time I arrive, late as usual. I’m lucky
enough to be able to sneak into the room and slip into an empty seat in the back. I don’t know
what’s going on, but Lucy from HR is whispering furiously at Mark from Accounting. She’s practically sitting on her hands, she’s so angry. Over on the other side of the room one of the managers (the new one, I don’t know his name yet) is riled up enough about something that his voice is almost audible, even from all the way over here.

Just when I’m starting to think that things can’t get any more heated, one of the junior account
execs picks up his copy of the meeting agenda and waves it in the air.

The noise is deafening.

'Taking Flight' by Lucienne Cummings

‘You stole the show!’ says Dad.

‘I didn’t!’ I reply, wiping off my eye makeup in the dressing room mirror. 

‘Well what’s that then?’ He points to the glittering roll of what could be mistaken for fabric in the corner. Magic drifts off the material, just as it used to do when I was small.

‘I’m just...borrowing it for a while.’

I should have hidden it under the bed in the clowns’ caravan like I was going to. No one dares annoy the clowns. Dad would never have found it.

‘What am I supposed to do without it?’ 

‘Spend some time with Mum. Rest. Enjoy some time without any injuries.’

‘You’re pensioning me off.’ Dad rubs his wrist where he sprained it last month. ‘I can still perform. I’ve never dropped you, have I?’

‘No, but – ,’  

‘You think I’m past it!’ He sounds desperately tired, and the dark circles under his eyes loom large in his reflection.

‘Dad. You’ve been the star of the Flying Andersons for so long. It’s time to hang up your spangly tights and let your children carry it on.’

I turn and hug him. As he relaxes, I look over his shoulder. The gleaming roll in the corner dims almost imperceptibly, but in the next moment sparkles again as brightly as ever.

'How Long is a Piece of String?' by Jan Hicks

She fiddles with it constantly. It has been with her for as long as she can remember, in this pocket and that, wrapped around fingers, tied to the different aids to perambulation her body has rested in, leaned upon. At moments she has wondered if it is endless like prayer beads. Her shock, then, is sudden. Slipping through her fingers, she feels the end briefly, slightly frayed, not sealed and neat like a shoelace. And then it, like she, is no longer.

'Bent Over Backwards' by Adele Evershed

When I was little, I stood straight like other people. Sometimes, I even tipped forward like a question mark. I don't remember that; I only know because of the photos I found in the attic.

If I can pinpoint when it started, Jack thinks I might begin to straighten myself out, move out of my parent's house, and have a life. Yes, he used the word 'straighten,' which made me like him immediately. Jack says I need to deal with my past so I can assert some control over my future. But, of course, he didn't use the word 'some'; he talks in absolutes, that word is mine.

Dr. Bennett (call me Jack) is the last one in a long line of doctors. He doesn't deal in bones or genetics; he's a psychoanalyst and deals with empathy. So instead of x-rays of my skeleton, he is shining a light on my subconscious.

Jack and I rake through my childhood, but it was not in any way remarkable. I am an only child of older parents. They were a little slaphappy (still are, but I don't tell Jack that), and I tried to avoid Da when he came home reeking of beer. That's easier now I'm grown. I helped Mam with the chores, and now I do them all. She's not an easy woman to please. She likes everything 'spick and span,' and I am finding it challenging to get everything done because of the extra time with Jack. Yesterday she told me I had to stop seeing him and for the first time I told her 'No.' Her face was a picture!

Today Jack measured me and said I'd straightened up by three inches since starting our sessions, so maybe therapy is working. No, not 'maybe'—therapy is working.

'Gods and Men' by Alastair Millar

When The Things arrived in their ships of pure energy, we thought Them gods in bright chariots.

But like gods, They did as They would; at best we were playthings, at worst an obstruction, usually an annoyance. Within a year, we had been dispossessed, skulking among what remained of our cities, trying to survive Their capriciousness.

Jenny and I were scavenging again. It was a risk, one of Them had been seen that morning, but the group needed to eat and we’d come prepared. The sack writhed in her hand as we scooted from rubble to ruin, making for a convenience store where I’d seen canned goods the day before, unlooted only because so few of us were left.

We’d got in, and were standing there panting, smiling at the tins on the shelf, when one of Them came straight through the plate glass windows, six feet long, landing on all fours.  

We froze, because movement attracted them. The rat-like head swivelled, uncertain. We held our breaths, but as it started to turn away a mewling came from the sack, and it twisted back. This time the sensory plates glowed and it saw us.

We dove in opposite directions, but as she hit the ground Jenny let the cat out of the bag, and it furiously took advantage of its chance at freedom. Leaping forwards took it towards the Thing, which reared up, screaming, and fled. Like all gods They were flawed, their inexplicable ailurophobia all that gave us a chance to live through encountering Them.

In time, inevitably, we would come to worship Bastet; today, we were just glad to eat.

NFFD 2021: Prompt #8

 Landmarks

National Flash Fiction Day's fourth anthology, Landmarks, was published in 2015.

For this prompt, take an expression or idiom and write a flash in which you interpret it literally.  Landmarks are literally marks on land. Jawbreakers break jaws.  If it's raining cats and dogs, the animal services need to get involved.  Feel free to delve into the magical or the ridiculous if you so desire.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 8: Landmarks.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 27 June 2021 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

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Past National Flash Fiction Day anthologies are available at the NFFD Bookshop.